


Strawberry Gashes

by ChiveCreamCheese



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Cutting, Diego Hargreeves is Bad at Feelings, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Good Sibling Ben Hargreeves, Good Sibling Diego Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves & David "Dave" Katz During Vietnam, Klaus Hargreeves Deserves Better, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Klaus Hargreeves Whump, Klaus Hargreeves-centric, Klave, M/M, Protective Diego Hargreeves, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26163145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChiveCreamCheese/pseuds/ChiveCreamCheese
Summary: How could he ever explain this? He didn’t even understand why it happened himself, all he knew was that the sting made the voices quiet.He was thankful that the stupid uniforms his father forced them to wear had long sleeves. He hid the marks on his arm, embarrassed and confused and maybe even a little bit scared of himself. Nobody thought to question him when he seemed to constantly rub the inside of his arm over his jacket. Nobody noticed when he started to absentmindedly scratch away the skin on his wrist when he got especially anxious. Nobody realized that the bruises covering his legs weren’t from training but were caused by his own fist. Nobody batted an eye when Luther grabbed his wrist, causing him to gasp in pain when his brother's grip aggravated the scraped up skin. Everyone figured Klaus was just being Klaus, always easily spooked and sensitive. It felt like he was haunted by the ghosts in the mausoleum, he felt like they had corrupted him when he got a sort of sick fascination with the damage he inflicted upon himself. He used jokes and distractions to cover up the shame he felt, and his family was none the wiser to the war he was waging on his body.
Relationships: Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves/David "Dave" Katz
Comments: 3
Kudos: 111





	Strawberry Gashes

**Author's Note:**

> TW for graphic depictions of Self-harm and Suicide, please read at your own risk!   
> Hi so this is basically just me projecting my own issues onto my favorite character, mostly as a means to cope. Coming up on 5 months self harm free so yay, idk I guess I relate a lot to Klaus in the way that he's so self destructive. Also watching his scene in season one where he's in the afterlife and was relieved to be dead makes me wonder if he's ever had a history of wanting to die. This work is gonna have multiple chapters and take place after season 1 so it is not season 2 compliant.

Throughout his short life, ever since he was only four years old, Number Four lived a life surrounded by death and decay. At eight years old he had already been exposed to things that no child should ever live through. He had gotten pretty good at handling the gruesome figures that crowded him day in day out. Of course he was still horrified and often had trouble distinguishing between alive and dead, but he tried his best to ignore the ghosts. He was starting to get really good at it, it was slow progress but to him it was progress nonetheless. His father however, did not see it that way. In Reginalds eyes, apparently a child is required to be able to look death in the face without flinching. The first time little Number Four was dragged to the mausoleum, he had no idea what he was in for.

The second the heavy stone door scraped across the ground, the sound of screaming and wailing was overwhelming. With a yelp his hands clapped over his ears in a desperate attempt to stop the sound. His legs seemed to move on their own accord and stepped back, prepared to run from the horror in the darkness but his father's bruising grip on his shoulder kept him from fleeing. “Number Four, it’s time to conquer your fear of the dead once and for all.” His father's voice was cold and even, as if he were just sending his son to timeout and not forcing him into this pitch black grave full of monsters who wanted to tear him apart. Vaguely he heard himself murmuring a litany of “No, no, no, please no” could feel his heels dig in and his body lock up as his father pushed him towards the darkness. With a final push he tripped over the step and fell to his hands and knees into the pit, feeling very much like a lamb thrown to the wolves. The sounds were deafening in here, the ghosts-no monsters were immediately upon him, swiping their hands in an attempt to grab him. “Dad no! Please no I’ll do better I swear!” His pleas for help fell on deaf ears as his Father started closing the heavy stone door behind him, engulfing him in the darkness. 

He stumbled towards the door, small hands clawing and banging against the unrelenting stone in an attempt to get out. “Please Dad! Please please please!” his voice cracked pitifully with how hard he was screaming. “Daddy I’m sorry! I’ll do better, I’ll train more please don’t leave me here!” No matter how hard he screamed, either his father just didn’t care or he had already left his son to his fate. He was going to die here, his father had sent him to his grave, these monsters were going to tear him limb from limb. The ghosts surrounded him as he fell to his knees against the door, he pushed himself into a corner and tried to make himself as small as possible. These weren’t like the normal ghosts he would see in the house, they were like husks of what they used to be. Screaming for pain and blood and violence because they were so far gone and angry from being forgotten. Screaming faces engulfed his vision, cold hands trying desperately to hurt him as they phased through his body. He was freezing, the chill of death surrounded his entire being, he was sure he must be dead too. 

Kill kill kill. How dare you, I’m going to rip you apart. Give me blood, break your bones, watch you bleed out you worthless piece of shit! 

No matter how small he tried to get, no matter how much he tried to disappear, the screaming never ended. Time didn’t feel real, he was floating in a sea of darkness, a sea of blood and destruction. It felt like he had been there for days, floating in the void, every sense was overwhelmed by the monsters surrounding him. Surely this was Hell, his father had condemned him to Hell. He felt a sharp pain shoot through his head as he slammed his head back against the stone wall. The pain jolted him out of the pit that his mind was falling into, he vaguely registered the pain as the back of his head connected with the stone once more. He could feel his senses starting to come back to him and the screaming seemed to dull around him. 

Yes yes yes, blood give me blood, give me destruction and pain and breaking and-

The ghosts seemed pleased, their screaming was starting to die down and the small relief from the constant noise felt like a godsend. So he threw his head back again, and again, and again. He could feel the sensation of something warm dripping onto his neck but the ghosts were being so blissfully quiet that he couldn’t even be bothered by it. Black spots filled his vision, blinding him to the figures around him and he started to feel at peace as he slowly drifted away. This time the darkness engulfed him like a comforting blanket, for once everything was silent and peaceful. Slowly the blackness started to drift, he could make out vague shapes of light and movement from behind his eyelids and a muffled voice called out to him. “Klaus? Honey it’s time to wake up now.” He cracked his eyes open to the blurry but warm smile of his mother. 

“Hi mommy” he gave her a tired smile and tried to blink off the sleepiness and confusion clouding his mind. “Hello my little mousey, how are you feeling?” He felt warm and safe in the care of his mom, her hand resting against his cheek. “Mm...tired...my head hurts.” Though her hand was synthetic, it was warm as she brushed back the hair sticking to his forehead and his eyes fell closed as he leaned into the touch. “You have a concussion darling, you must’ve had quite the fall, your father found you yesterday evening.” He felt his brain sluggishly trying to catch up, he fell? He’s been asleep since yesterday evening? His head ached as he tried to process what happened, bits and pieces were slowly coming back to him. He was in...the mausoleum, with a jolt he shot up from the bed and frantically looked around. He relaxed when he only saw the white walls and soft glow of the infirmary and he let out the breath that he was holding. He was safe, he was with his mom, his mom would keep him safe from the monsters.

A gentle hand rubbing his back brought him back to his senses and he found himself laying back down again in exhaustion. “You’re okay mousey, you hit your head pretty hard so you might just be feeling confused and tired.” He gave her a small nod and even that made him feel like his brain was rattling around in his head. His mom turned to the bedside table and grabbed a glass of water and 2 small white pills, he gulped both down and cherished the soothing feeling of water on his aching throat. “The tylenol should kick in soon so that your head will feel better darling, you’re going to have to take it easy for a little while okay mousey?” At least he would get a break from training through all of this, though a part of him still felt uneasy and on edge. He was afraid that if he closed his eyes he would be back in the screaming darkness, it felt like the images were burned into his eyelids. He struggled against his drooping eyelids as his mom’s hand carded through his hair, he was so relieved that he wasn’t alone with the monsters anymore.

He must’ve drifted off again because next thing he knew he heard muffled chattering outside the infirmary room, he startled out of his doze but was immediately relieved to see his mother still by his bedside. “There he is, you have some visitors who have been patiently waiting for you to wake up darling, you feel okay to see them?” He smiled and nodded, he still felt sleepy and sluggish but at least his head wasn’t hurting him anymore. His mom approached the door and next thing he knew the room was bombarded with the patter of feet and concerned voices. He barely had time to register what was happening before he felt a body jump into bed with him and arms wrap tightly around his shoulders. “Four! You’re okay!” Six’s wobbly voice breathed against his shoulder and he immediately relaxed into the hug and wrapped his arms around his brother. He was still so cold and the warmth from his brother felt wonderful, he leaned into the warmth and laid his forehead against Six’s shoulder, craving affection. To his delight Number Six didn’t let go but instead maneuvered the two of them so that Four could lay his head on Six’s chest. His brother's heartbeat in his ear was a comforting reminder that he was alive and that Number Four wasn’t alone. 

His siblings surrounded him, their concerned voices filling the room, even shy little Number Seven rushed up to him and grabbed his free hand. Finally it was Number One’s shush that quieted his siblings down so that he could say “What happened? We were so worried about you!” Four hesitated, not quite sure how to explain that HE was the one to knock himself out, thankfully his mother chimed in as she noticed his hesitation. “Your father found your brother after he had fallen and hit his head outside. He suffered a concussion so he’s got to get lots of rest for a couple days to heal, so no playing rough or training okay?” He heard various mumbled agreements around him and he let his eyes drift closed once more, feeling safe and secure in the company of his siblings. “Now why don’t you guys keep your brother company while I start dinner okay?” 

Once again he could feel himself starting to drift as his siblings talked to him about their day, for once there was no arguing or bickering. Just the comforting chatter and his own mhms and huhs as he was still too sluggish to fully commit to the conversation. Eventually he felt himself sink further into his brother's warmth and sleep finally took its hold. In the back of his mind, fear and confusion stirred as the mausoleum replayed over and over in his mind. He fell, yes that’s exactly what happened. He...he must’ve tripped over the stairs and fallen, that’s what dad thought happened. Deep down he held onto that moment of pain and how it made the ghosts quieter. He was too young to understand what that meant, so he pushed it down, down, down. He fell, he was just imagining it, he fell and that was that. 

=========

His father gave him a break from the mausoleum after his incident, but deep down he knew that one day he would return. Ever since that first visit, the night terrors got worse, oftentimes startling him awake as screams tore from his throat. Once it became an almost nightly occurrence, his father decided to soundproof his walls. “Your childish fear will not interfere with your siblings performance Number Four!” It felt like the voices never left him that night, always around the corner, screaming at him to hurt and bleed and kill- In his panic from the nightmares his arms seemed to move on their own accord, hitting again and again until he could finally breathe once more. It felt like he no longer had control of his body, the voices holding power over him until they were satisfied with the damage. 

The second time he was forced into the mausoleum, hitting himself didn’t seem to work. In his desperation to stop the screaming he grabbed a jagged rock that was laying next to one of the crumbling walls. He didn’t quite understand what he was doing as the rock bit into the sensitive skin of his inner arm. The ghosts seemed overjoyed at the sight of blood sluggishly bubbling out of the scrapes, bright red against his pale skin. The rock wasn’t sharp enough to slice through the skin, but as he sawed back and forth the rough surface scraped away the skin and that was enough for the ghosts. He remembered the shock and shame that coursed through him after everything had quieted down enough for him to think. How could he ever explain this? He didn’t even understand why it happened himself, all he knew was that the sting made the voices quiet. 

He was thankful that the stupid uniforms his father forced them to wear had long sleeves. He hid the marks on his arm, embarrassed and confused and maybe even a little bit scared of himself. Nobody thought to question him when he seemed to constantly rub the inside of his arm over his jacket. Nobody noticed when he started to absentmindedly scratch away the skin on his wrist when he got especially anxious. Nobody realized that the bruises covering his legs weren’t from training but were caused by his own fist. Nobody batted an eye when Luther grabbed his wrist, causing him to gasp in pain when his brother's grip aggravated the scraped up skin. Everyone figured Klaus was just being Klaus, always easily spooked and sensitive. It felt like he was haunted by the ghosts in the mausoleum, he felt like they had corrupted him when he got a sort of sick fascination with the damage he inflicted upon himself. He used jokes and distractions to cover up the shame he felt, and his family was none the wiser to the war he was waging on his body. 

=======

Over the next couple of years the damage along with Klaus’ pain tolerance increased, the voices were never satisfied. In a sick sort of way Klaus had started to find comfort in the pain, it was a reminder that he was alive. The mausoleum visits never stopped and at one point the scratching and hitting were not enough. The ghosts craved blood and destruction and wouldn’t stop until they got what they wanted. His hands shook violently as he stared down at the pocket knife Diego had gifted him only a few days prior. 

“For protection.” His brother had grumbled as he handed him the gift. It was early morning on their twelfth birthday, Diego had snuck into his room and shoved the small package in his hand. Klaus couldn’t help but giggle at Diego’s expression, his eyes cast to the side and his bottom lip jutted out slightly in a poor attempt at seeming annoyed. He knew his brother wasn’t the best at conveying emotions but he didn’t miss how Diego gave a soft laugh when Klaus jumped up to hug him. “Aww Dee! You spoil me!” Diego gave a huff and rolled his eyes “It’s n-nothing, just...you’re always shit at combat training, figured you could use all the help you can get.” Klaus gave his brother a fond smile, he knew this was just his emotionally constipated way of showing his care. Without a care Klaus tore open the packaging to reveal a small simple pocket knife, it had a wooden hilt and Klaus beamed when he noticed the small “K” carved into its side. 

“Diego...I love it.” Once again he threw himself at his brother and pressed an obnoxiously loud kiss to his cheek which made Diego groan but he accepted it nonetheless. “Ew don’t make it weird, it’s nothing really.” He sighed before finally returning his brother's hug. “H-happy Birthday Klaus.” Klaus giggled as he tightened his arms around Diego, feeling happier than he's had in a very long time. “Happy Birthday to you too Dee.”

======

Klaus felt numb when the blade fell to the ground, clattering against the stone floor of the Mausoleum. He felt empty as he stared at the cuts littering his arm, the blood slowly but steadily dripping from them. He wasn’t sure exactly how long he sat and looked at his work, but eventually the blood stopped coming and dried against his skin, scarlet tracks staining his arm. He wasn’t even aware of the ghosts anymore, too entranced with the result of his panic. He felt his body move on autopilot, finally pulling his sleeve down to cover the mess he made. The blood was dried enough that he didn’t worry about it staining his uniform sleeve, he would just have to wash up and maybe patch up some of the wider cuts. He felt...peaceful? Comfortably numb and basking in the afterglow. Vaguely he registered a few unwelcome thoughts of “Diego would be so disgusted with me, using the gift he gave me to do this.” and “These are definitely going to scar, what is wrong with me?” But for right now, he didn’t care. He had silenced the ghosts and the voices in his head for once and that’s all that mattered right now. 

That night in his bed, when the emptiness wore off he was overcome with guilt and anger at himself. He felt disgusted and glared at his now bandaged arm, his anger at himself felt like it would swallow him whole. Klaus promised himself that he would never use that knife again, this was a one time thing. He was weak and pathetic and he deserved the horrible things that the voices in his head were saying. Of course none of this stopped him from using the knife once again a week later on his next trip to the mausoleum. The voices always wanted more though, they always lurked in the back of his head, reminding him of how worthless he was. He deserved this, he was a disappointment, a nuisance, a waste of potential. 

He functioned on autopilot, to the outsiders eye he seemed normal, maybe more spacey and less touchy but he was becoming a teenager so it made sense. He made more jokes, more distractions, and got defensive when talking about his feelings. He was fine goddamnit and nobody would question otherwise. Sometimes the voices were so loud, he couldn’t tell if they were coming from the ghosts around him or from inside his head, they all sounded the same by now. A constant barrage of “jump out the window, take that knife and stab yourself, dad has a gun in his office, it would be so easy, do it, do it, do it” it was only a matter of time before the voices won. 

Klaus was actually having a pretty good day, the ghosts weren’t bothering him too much and he was able to stay distracted enough for the voices to fade into the background of his mind. Dad and Pogo had left that morning on “an important business trip” as they had put it, and the kids were allowed free time. Well technically he was supposed to finish his language studies before that but he figured a break would be okay. All of his other siblings were busy studying away in their rooms so Klaus decided to stretch his legs and wander the academy before returning to his studies. Eventually he made it to the closet at the tops of the stairs, he glanced around quickly to make sure nobody was around before grinning and pulling open the doors. Inside was a beautiful array of clothes and shoes that his mother wore. 

He wasn’t supposed to be rummaging through her stuff but her clothes were always so pretty and he wanted to be pretty once in a while too. The red heels he always admired weren’t hard to find and he hurried to throw his own shoes off before putting them on. They were too big of course, he hadn’t hit his growth spurt as of yet but they weren’t too hard to handle. He shuffled along carefully, arms out to help maintain balance and he only wobbled slightly. After a minute or so he felt more confident and strutted towards the stairs before stopping at the top. He wanted to practice walking down the stairs and he was just about to take the first step when he suddenly felt frozen in place. A part of him felt drawn towards the bottom of the stairs, he should’ve been scared when the thought of jumping flashed through his head but he mostly felt comforted by the thought. Klaus could feel that crackling energy burrowing underneath his skin, begging to be set loose, willing his body to do anything to stop the sudden painful tightening of his chest. 

The rest of the world faded away and all that was left was that unbearable energy in his core, the thump thump thump of his heart, and the blissful silence at the bottom of the stairs. The world was muffled around him and the voices were loud. The same voices from the mausoleum, he was positive that if he turned around the ghosts would be waiting for them, their icy breath breathing against the back of his neck. Do it Klaus, don’t be such a coward, c’mon Klaus do it. 

JUMP

And so he did. 

When he awoke, jaw wired shut and the blissful buzz of morphine flowing through his veins, he felt peaceful. That was the day that Klaus realized that getting high worked much MUCH better at silencing the ghosts and the voices. Pain was still a close friend when he didn’t have drugs and the voices were especially loud. When he couldn’t get drugs or when his father forced him to get sober, he could always rely on the bite of a blade to get him through.


End file.
